


Who Watches

by mydeira, Sadbhyl



Series: Responsible Adults (aka, The Menageaverse) [32]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydeira/pseuds/mydeira, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadbhyl/pseuds/Sadbhyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Giles is called back before the Council in the wake of Buffy’s death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Watches

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about a month after the events of The Offering and the episode The Gift. 
> 
> Written by Sadbhyl, beta'd by Mydeira

Giles looked up stonily at the imposing façade of the headquarters for the Council of Watchers. He hated this building. He had come here every day for fifteen years, dreading the sight of the place. But he had come, out of duty, out of penance. Until they moved him to Sunnydale and he didn’t have to see this place, these people every day. He had escaped, he had been free. He learned to stand against them. Buffy had made him strong enough to face them.

Buffy was dead.

They had summoned him back to report on the passing of one more dead Slayer, unmindful of his own pain and sorrow. And like a dutiful son, he had returned.

He knew what Ethan would say, what Ethan _had_ said. “Bugger them, Ripper. You don’t owe them a damn thing. You wrote your report, submitted it in triplicate. They’ve got what they need, they’re just after their pound of flesh. People here need you. Let the Council hang.”

Giles wished he could be more like Ethan.

Although he didn’t know if the man was right about being needed. He wanted to be there for Joyce, but she had been so distant since it happened, so unemotional, and he didn’t want to pressure her. Instead she seemed to prefer spending every waking moment with Dawn, leaving more of the running of the gallery to her assistant than she probably should. And Dawn wasn’t necessarily responding positively to the increased attention, leading to screaming matches between the two of them that left Joyce hollow and pale.

Ethan wasn’t much better. Giles hadn’t seen him this reserved . . . well, probably since Randall was taken. Like Giles, he gave Joyce as much room as she needed in her mourning, but Giles could feel the tension coming off him, the need to act that so defined his character.

And then there were the children. Children no longer, of course. They had long grown out of that, all the death they had seen and wrought maturing them before time had a chance. But Buffy’s death had hit them hard. She had escaped it so often that for her to turn and embrace it had shocked them all to their core. They were all so quiet now, and almost always in each other’s company, as though afraid they’d lose another one if they separated.

Ethan was right. People back home needed him, ineffectual as he may be.

But here he was anyway. Running out of excuses to delay going in.

He drew himself up and mounted the stairs.

The reception area was imposing, dark wood, brass and leather giving an air of permanence and infallibility to unsuspecting visitors. The receiving desk was enormous, mahogany and bare of anything except a small phone bank. The girl behind the desk was younger than Buffy.

She smiled serenely. “Good morning. How may I help you?”

“I’m Rupert Giles. I believe Mr. Travers is expecting me.”

“Of course, Mr. Giles. Let me announce you.” She pushed a button on the phone and spoke briefly into the microphone of her discreet headset before nodding and disconnecting. “Mr. Travers can see you now. Just follow this hallway . . .”

“Yes,” he interrupted her brusquely, “I believe I can find the way to the Director’s office. Seeing as I was working here before you were born.”

The girl looked hurt, but hid it. “Of course. My apologies. Have a nice day, Mr. Giles.”

He felt like a heel, but resisted the urge to apologize. Apologies only made you weak here.

He followed the paneled hall through the rat maze of offices and research collections towards the heart of the building and the sanctum sanctorum of the Council Director’s office. He ignored the portraits of previous directors that watched his progress, a thousand years worth of dour old men and sharp, critical women judging him silently with every step.

The Director’s secretary was the same one Rupert had always known. He thought his grandmother was possibly the one to hire her, although no one really remembered anymore. She had remained through three subsequent Directors through sheer force of the fact that she knew the job of Director better even than any of the Directors did, and they relied on her entirely. The administration would quite possibly collapse should Agnes Armistead ever retire. Not that she would. She’d be carried out of the place feet first. “Good morning, Miss Armistead.”

“Mr. Giles.” She glared at him sternly over the tops of her glasses and he was instantly twenty-five years old again and being called on the carpet for some infraction or other. “Mr. Travers will be with you shortly.”

Giles found himself falling instantly into school posture, as though waiting for the headmaster, and hated himself for it. After everything the Council had put him and Buffy through, after everything Quentin had done, he didn’t deserve that kind of respect. So he went to one of the club chairs, sitting casually with his legs crossed, much to Agnes’ displeasure.

It took Quentin about ten minutes to finally make his appearance. “Rupert,” he said affably, offering his hand. Giles rose and grudgingly took it. “Thank you for coming. Please, come into my office. Agnes, will you bring us tea, please?”

“None for me, thank you,” Giles stopped her. “No pretense, Quentin. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Yes, of course.” He followed Giles into the office, closing the door behind them before moving around his desk to sit, gesturing for Giles to do the same. “First, let me say I’m sorry for your loss. I know you and the girl were close.”

Giles wanted to lash out at the man’s hypocrisy, but said simply, “Thank you.”

Quentin flipped open a folder on his desk, skimming down a page in front of him. “We had a few questions about the final battle we needed clarification on.”

“I should have thought everything you needed you would find in my report.”

“Yes, and may I say I have never seen so thorough a final report by a Watcher.”

“I’m well aware of that.” He could hear Buffy’s voice in his head chiding, “Damn, Giles. Love ya, but you Watchers are such prigs sometimes.”

“Well then,” Quentin slipped his small spectacles on, “let’s begin.”

For the next hour, Quentin very carefully dissected the journal entry Giles had submitted as his last act as Buffy’s Watcher. Travers was looking for details, but if it wasn’t included, it wasn’t something Giles planned to share. He had left very little out, remembering Buffy’s complaint about the incomplete reports of the Slayers’ final conflicts. Quentin’s subtle probing and sly asides wouldn’t get him to admit more.

“So,” the director asked well into the proceedings, “you say here Miss Summers accepted assistance from the sorcerer Rayne without complaint?”

“At that point she would have accepted help from Satan himself if it meant ending Glory.”

Quentin looked at him expectantly over the tops of his frames.

“Yes, she accepted his help. I was injured, and he’d proved himself a valuable ally in the past. And as the report shows, he contributed significantly to the final fight.”

“I see that. The simulacrum, and destroying the creature attempting to activate the Key. Very noble. Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t keep me apprised of his movements.”

“Hmm.” And he turned back to the report.

Bit by bit he continued, tearing apart the strategy they had developed for taking on Glory. His expression showed he didn’t approve of their unconventional methods, but was satisfied with the results.

“So, finally defeated, Glory returned to the shape of the vessel?”

“Yes.”

“And then the Slayer killed her.”

“No.” Here Giles pulled out the soft shoe he had prepared. Buffy deserved the credit for this, he wasn’t going to distract from that. Nor was he going to let Quentin Travers call her a murderer. “She warned Glory off through the vessel and left, but the damage the god had endured was too much for the human host. He died in the aftermath of the fight.”

“How . . . fortunate.” Quentin removed his glasses, leaning back in his chair. “And the Key?”

“Has been rendered harmless.” Giles kept his voice even. This was the critical part of the deception. If he failed, he risked losing Joyce both her daughters. “The ritual could only be performed that night at that specific time. Any attempts to use it now would be fruitless.”

“Nevertheless, we should like to have it here, to study its properties and better understand the spell that created it.”

“I’m sorry, that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s returned to where it belongs.” Which wasn’t a lie. Dawn belonged with her mother.

“Ah, I see.” He jotted a note down. “I must say, I don’t quite understand how Miss Summers’ death resolved the matter of the portal.”

“It required a blood sacrifice to close. I don’t know what reasoning brought Buffy to presume her blood would work, but the results proved her correct. She died, and the portal closed.”

“Quod era demonstrandum.”

Giles didn’t roll his eyes. “Quite.”

Quentin closed the file and dripped his glasses neatly on top of it. “Well, I appreciate you taking the time to go through this with me. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you. Now let’s discuss your situation.”

“My . . .?” That surprised him.

“Yes, of course. Your role as field Watcher has now come to a close. It’s time for you to return here and share the benefits of your experience. I know the current class of trainees is especially anxious to begin studying under you.”

“You want me to teach? Here?”

“It _is_ traditional, Rupert. Now I know you have things to resolve back in California first. Selling the shop, settling the apartment, that sort of thing. Would a month give you enough time?”

Giles felt the walls closing in around him and struggled to remain calm. “I wasn’t planning on coming back. I have ties, responsibilities back in Sunnydale.”

“Rupert,” Quentin rose and circled around to lean against the front of the desk. “Your only responsibility is dead. The rest of her team will disperse back to their own lives and that will be the end of that.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Giles denied.

“You mean your rather unorthodox relationship with Joyce Summers and Ethan Rayne. Really, Rupert, I’m surprised at your naiveté. How long do you expect that liaison to last? You’re responsible for the death of one of Mrs. Summers’ daughters and the endangerment of the other. If you had destroyed the key initially, Dawn Summers would never have been in any danger. And as for the mage, well, it’s only a matter of time before he returns to form, isn’t it? You know it and I know it. So you see, there’s nothing in America for you. Better to come home, where you can be useful.”

And there it was, all laid out bare where he couldn’t avoid it. Every insecurity, every uncertainty, all so obvious that even someone who only saw him every other year could pinpoint it. Joyce’s distance, Ethan’s reserve, all fed into that insecurity. But Giles would be damned if he would let this man use that weakness against him. He rose to his feet in cool indignation.

“I’m useful in Sunnydale. It _is_ still a Hellmouth, in case you had forgotten. And my relationship with Joyce and Ethan is my business, not yours, so I will thank you not to refer to them again. Now, unless there is something else you needed, I’ll be going.”

“Rupert, don’t be a fool. You’re throwing your career away . . .”

“No. My career ended when Buffy stepped off that scaffold. I’m a civilian now, and I’ll thank you to remember it.” He turned to walk steadily out of the office, pausing in the doorway. “And when you find your new Slayer, if you choose to send her to the Hellmouth, she’ll find us, all of us, fighting the good fight. She’ll be welcome, but it will be our fight, and don’t you ever forget it. We don’t need a champion to keep fighting. We had Buffy.”

He left Quentin speechless, ignoring the stern look Agnes shot him as he stormed out of the office. He had thrown down the gauntlet. He only hoped he had been right.


End file.
